


Winging It

by Noceu



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff and Angst, M/M, References to Illness, Wingfic, so sweet you could make syrup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-05 12:49:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15863955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noceu/pseuds/Noceu
Summary: Martin has kept a secret his entire life. He never expected a complete stranger to be the one to unwind it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arazsya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arazsya/gifts).



Every morning, Martin saw them up in the sky. Monday morning was no exception.

Mottled shapes spanned the corners of his vision, blotting out the clouded grey horizon in a flurry of wings and feathers and dust.

And every morning, Martin found himself longing and wishing to be one of them. To be just another commuter flying to work, or college or-- flying anywhere, really.

Instead of the skies, he took the train. It wasn't an equal exchange, but it got him where he needed to be, mostly on time. It worked for him. And well, some of his coworkers did the same, Martin knew that. He'd ridden with Tim before. They shared a taxi after one of their disastrous attempts at dating, when Tim had been far too pissed to manage to lift himself off the ground and Martin far too concerned for Tim’s safety. And the entire time he'd barely kept himself from admiring Tim's wings--

Tim’s fully functional, stunningly beautiful peacock wings.

Martin sighed as he stepped into his carriage, immediately zooming for the nearest free seat. It was a tight fit, sandwiched between his tightly folded wings and the little laptop case he carried. Martin was used to this, and the way the very tips of his wings would cramp during long journeys.

There was nothing wrong with him.

It wasn't uncommon to prefer the ground. Nor was it rare to love the security of having both feet firmly planted somewhere solid. There was nothing wrong with _not flying_ \-- nothing at all. There were a number of conditions that could keep a person landlocked for life, and Martin didn't suffer from any of them. He was as healthy as any other guy his age and… knowing that didn't keep away any of his unease and guilt and shame. In fact, the knowledge only fed into his hatred of himself.

Martin stared out of the window. His eyes followed row after row of flying commuters, watching as they darted in every direction, spreading across invisible roads he couldn't discern. He counted the species out there -- a magpie and a jackdaw flew side by side; feathers drifted in the breeze behind their clothes -- and idly wondered if he'd be ever capable of just… not looking. Of keeping his eyes down.

He could be one of them.

He could have been the lazy albatross riding the air currents or one of the hawks currently flirting the nearest updraft; in another life, perhaps. He could have been someone else, somewhere else, not in a noisy train that was probably past its capacity maximum, if the way it groaned and creaked every few seconds was to be taken seriously.

He wasn't. He was Martin Blackwood and he was firmly glued to land.

An odd pressure prickled in the corners of his eyes and there was tickle in his throat that reminded him of the last time he'd cried. He bit back a whimper. Most days he was better at seeing past his stupid fears. But then, most days he wasn't elbowed on his way out, or shouted at for the way his wings dragged slightly, pinions ruffled out of place by the crowd and the rush of getting to work on time.

No one knew.

It had been painfully easy to lie to his mother when she'd asked and, well, it wasn't like she was well enough that he would ever be called out on it. Tim hadn't asked. Martin guessed he'd just assumed he preferred not to dance high up there and left it at that. That sounded like Tim. Easy going -- maybe too easy going.

Jon, it didn't really matter. Martin would rather not dwell on his boss for any longer than necessary. Sasha probably knew already and was far too kind-hearted to mention it, or at least, she was saving him the embarrassment of becoming easy office gossip.

Not that there wasn't plenty of him to pick at already. Between all the days he had to take off to rush to the hospital and the poor performance in the months after his mother was finally admitted to hospice care, Martin wasn't sure how he hadn't somehow become the Institute’s sole source of workplace drama. At least then he wouldn't have to deal with all the pity-laden glances when they thought he wasn't looking.

At least then he could've lashed out -- the thought was there, but it was only marginally satisfying. No, he'd never blame them for his own shortcomings.

Martin gave Rosie in reception a forced half-smile as he waited for his new key fob. Her wings shimmered dark blue, spread open and draped across the desk’s wing rests. He automatically pulled his closer to his back, self conscious all of a sudden.

The Archives door was an unwieldy old thing and the lock broke and needed to be replaced or reset -- it felt like -- every other week. Martin didn't even know why they needed it. Something about priceless artifacts being kept in a carefully monitored atmosphere in storage, which sounded like a whole lot of nonsense, as far as he was concerned. 

Martin didn't question it, though. He didn't question much.

Today was far from his worst. When he finally settled at his desk Martin was only half startled to see a new visitor form waiting for him to approve. Something something paperwork and someone having gotten the right permits to visit the on-site rare books section. He couldn’t pretend to understand every part of the immensely bureaucratic process. That was a job for his boss’s boss, a certain Elias, whom Martin was sure disliked him, even after only having met the guy once after his interview.

Maybe it was because of Jon-- no. He wasn’t _useless_ . He _wouldn’t be useless._

He sat down, carefully running the tips of his fingers across the meat of his shoulder, willing his muscles to relax before he could rest his wings back. His coverts were unusually ruffled and Martin blamed it on the stress of having to come back to work after an already miserable two days off.

He smoothed them back down, watching the greyish brown feathers settle. Aside from a few splotches of orange across his mantle-line, by his spine, there was nothing remarkable about his wings.

Nothing at all. European Robin, he’d been told as soon as he was old enough to understand it. Just another common, dull little bird.

Just another-- “Right,” he stopped himself and the wave of thoughts washing through his head. “Time to get this sorted.”

 _Research_. That was officially what they did in the Archives. It was on the first line of his job description; _Archival Assistant Researcher._ Not that there was much _research_ involved in filling in forms, fiddling with the photocopier and keeping their online database up to date. The latter was technically Tim’s job, when he wasn’t running errands for Jon.

Not much research involved in it at all.

Martin was halfway through signing and stamping the right things on the right papers when someone stepped behind him. He didn’t bother to look. There were only two of them in Monday mornings -- and Jon, of course. Jon was _always_ around.

“Busy weekend? You look like you didn't catch a wink of sleep,” Sasha said. She handed him a mug of tea, steaming hot. “Don't tell me you're still thinking about him.”

“What?”

Martin didn’t look up. He held the cup, rolling it between his palms. From the smell of it, she must’ve cracked open a new box of loose leaf and Martin didn’t recognise it. Huh.

Sasha rolled her eyes -- Martin just knew she did, he heard it in her tone just as he heard her wings flap once, and felt a cool breeze tickle his face. “You know, him.”

“I don’t really know what you’re--” He stopped as it dawned on him. “Jon?” He was very quiet. Jon’s office was on the other end of the Archives and a closed door away, and still he feared they’d be heard.

Sasha nodded and grinned. “Mhm. I heard it on the grapevine you guys had a tiff last week before you left?”

“Tim.”

It wasn’t a question and Sasha didn’t nod. She didn’t have to. The way she moved beside him to sit on the corner of his desk; the way her fingers briefly caressed his forearm was enough of an apology for outing Tim as the culprit.

“It wasn’t like that, I just… I don’t know why he keeps picking on me?” His wings tensed, moving awkwardly over their rests. Some days, Martin almost wished he could just strap them down or… worse. Almost. “I just forgot the date. I didn’t realise it was so late already.”

Sasha’s wings were a pale grey, splashed by streaks of white across the inner coverts. They fanned out, enveloping the both of them in a dark, feathery cocoon. It lasted only a second or two, but Martin appreciated the soothing gesture.

“He’s not like that with everyone. It’s just me,” he said very softly. “He just hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you. He’s just a grumpy arsehole, and if he didn’t have at least one scapegoat in this place he’d probably go nuts.” When Martin frowned she added, “You know I’m right.”

“He asked you to redo what I’d already done, just because he thought I’d done it wrong!”

Sasha shook her head. Martin could barely bear to glance up and have her notice the hints of tears in the corners of his eyes, but her hair tickled his forehead. It was just too much. Everything was.

“I told him to stuff it,” she said.

“What?”

“Your work was fine, so there was no point in having me redo it and spend time poring over all the paperwork and the books you’d already gone through. So I told him off.”

The thought that _anyone_ could do that to Jon hadn’t really occurred to him before. “Tim didn’t tell me.” He held his breath, willing his wings not to twitch.

“Tim knows you’ve got enough on your plate. Which was what I was going to ask you, before this.” She paused, hopped off the desk and walked around so that she faced him directly. “How are you doing?”

Martin’s first instinct was to fan his wings out and block her face from view. His second was to just turn away. He swallowed down the taste of bile on his tongue and forced himself not to react. “I’m… I’m fine.” As fine as fine can be, anyway.

“You look like you’ve been dumped in a trash compactor, Martin,” she said. “Your mum, how is she doing?”

Right. _Right._ It was a slightly gentler way of being called on his bullshit. His hands clenched over the mug of tea, squeezing so hard that his whole arm shook and heat splashed over his knuckles.

 _“_ Same as last week,” Martin replied, trying not to stumble over the words; trying not to sob; not to break down so early in the morning. “She’s... she doesn’t always remember me. She did for a bit on Saturday and we chatted. That was nice.” It had been. He'd been able to tell his mum about his life, even if her comments had only brought back painful memories of his childhood.

Sasha didn't immediately reply. She'd offered her condolences many times before, it wasn't about that. Martin didn’t want it to be about that and she didn’t disappoint him. She lowered her head, wings fluttering behind her back. “Did you tell her about him? I'm sure she'd have some things to say,” she said.

The suddenness of it tore a gasp from his lips. His mum -- the way he chose to remember her -- would've hated to see him upset over Jon. Wouldn't she? He hadn't been the subject of their talk, but Martin was sure of it.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if she knows _something_ is bothering you. That’s the kind of things a mother knows,” she continued. Then softer, she added, “Even if she doesn’t know how she knows... If I were to guess, you put on that face for everyone while quietly worrying about whatever it is that is clearly bothering you. Am I wrong? _Trust her with this._ ”

Martin made a stunned noise that was somewhere between a dry cackle and a cry. She would have never stood idle while he suffered. “I'm not sure…” It wasn’t something he wanted to talk about. “She, uh, she liked it when I read the card you sent. She wasn't sure who it was from but… she thought you were a concerned stranger.”

“One day,” Sasha said, lifting the mug from Martin’s hand, “you're going to take me to visit. You promised, remember?

It had been a bit of an empty promise, but Martin didn't mind. It was nice to have friends beside him -- and to have someone he didn't need to lie to, even if what she thought she knew was only a fragment of the truth.

“One day,” he agreed. One day sounded good.

 

\---

 

Martin was alone.

Sasha had left for lunch about five minutes earlier. Jon had gone somewhere, Martin wasn’t sure where, and he wasn’t sure why he _didn’t_ care, either. Tim was still out.

Surrounded only by whispers of ancient books and mountains of paperwork taller than himself, he finally relaxed. Some of the folders went back to the inception of the Magnus Institute, so old that Martin could barely turn their weathered pages without risking a tear. So old that when he thought of the sort of knowledge they contained, his brain felt funny.

It was easy to be alone. Martin wasn’t so much lonely as relieved. There was no one here to see him break if -- _when_ \-- it happened.

Usually, he wouldn't have skipped a meal to finish work. Sasha had tried to convince him to join her. But the thing about research was how easy it was for him to get lost in it.

When the door to the Archives opened, he’d been rooting through one of the old computer’s hard drives, trying to find anything that related to their newest case. Specifically related to the owner and possible author of an old handwritten tome on the legitimacy of a collection of Nostradamus’ writings which had been donated by, well, Martin really didn’t care about that.

He hadn’t expected anyone back so soon, and stared up to see… a stranger, a man he didn’t know, peering curiously at the threshold.

“Um, hello?”

“Hi?” The man’s smile was disarmingly placid.

He was… well, not really what Martin would’ve expected, and that was assuming he’d been expecting someone. His wings were larger than any others he had ever seen in real life, easily stretching the length of the entryway when he turned to face Martin’s desk. Thin and long, their span was powdered black, contrasting starkly with pristine white innerwing feathers.

“I- uh, are you looking for someone?” Martin tried not to stare, tearing his gaze away when their eyes met. For the briefest moment, all he saw was blue -- pale like the sea, or the sky. Then he noticed the amusement that shot across the stranger’s face.

Warmth flooded his cheeks and Martin looked away quickly.

“I suppose the answer to that question depends on whether you consider books people or not.” The man’s voice was smooth, the cadence a gentle thing that flowed like the wind. “I’m not looking for anyone, I’m a visitor to the rare books storage. I think this is it?”

Martin stood. He ignored the way his wings dragged behind his back and the flashing pop-up on his laptop screen. “Oh, huh. Do you have the--”

He blinked down in time to see a copy of the request form he’d filled earlier and the man’s visitor pass slide towards him, landing neatly over some precariously stacked files.

“Michael Crew,” Martin read. He recalled, albeit rather vaguely, the sort of strange books Michael had been searching for. “I’m- I’m sorry, I’ve been going through this and forgot we had a visitor arriving today. I’m, uh, I’m Martin.”

“Mike, please. Michael makes me sound ridiculously pretentious,” Mike replied. It was easy to go along with it and nod. Mike made it easy. And that smile -- well, Martin didn’t know how to describe it. Mike had the kind of lips he would read -- or write -- poetry about.

“Oh, um. Nice to meet you.” Martin pulled the tips of his wings over his thighs, flattening them so that they didn’t brush Mike when he stepped past. “Can I get you something? We have tea and, uh, biscuits?” Hopefully Tim hadn't eaten them all yet.

“Tea sounds good.”

“Right. How do you take it? You can take a seat somewhere, I-” Martin lifted one hand to gesture at the office space. It was a mess -- no, understatement. It was an uncharted archive. “There's… uh, there should be somewhere for you to sit. If not then you can take my chair. I really don’t mind.”

In comparison to his monstrous wings, Mike was tiny. So small that when they shook hands, Martin’s palm enveloped Mike’s. His fingers rested against Mike’s wrist and Martin could feel Mike’s pulse thumping steadily under them. He was calm, in control -- though of what, Martin wasn't sure.

“No milk, one sugar please.”

Mike didn’t let go, not at first. His skin was cool and his grasp firm. He held on for a couple moments longer than normal, and though that wasn't entirely unacceptable, it was a wonder Martin didn’t realise until he felt that bubble of awkwardness build in the pit of his stomach.

“Uh, Mike?”

If Martin had been able to just turn invisible and hide, hell, if he’d been able to fly away, he would have. Instead, he noticed the way Mike's eyes refocused on him and, after another second, the way he pulled back, sharply, as if realising what he’d done. Martin used that to turn away, immediately ducking his head under one wing, breath hitching in his throat.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll go get that tea… I’ll be- just make yourself comfortable, I’ll be right back,” Martin stuttered quietly, low enough that he wasn’t sure Mike could hear him. In fact, Martin wasn’t sure he could even hear himself over the sound of his heartbeat drumming in the back of his skull.

At least not until Mike spoke. “I- come on, don’t hide,” he said and that, Martin thought, didn’t sit right with him. He _wasn’t_ hiding. Not really. “I zoned out. This morning a storm broke out and it came with horrible turbulence. It’s been affecting me strangely.”

“Th- the storm? I saw the rain but I didn’t realise...”

There was no way Mike could have crossed the distance between them without walking but Martin had heard nothing of the sort. No footsteps. No shuffling. No wingbeats. Nothing. Either Mike was very good at the whole silent gliding thing or he--

Martin paused suddenly, shuddering at the light pressure to his shoulder.

“Did you notice? I was away from the country for a while, only arrived a couple hours ago. It’s possible it didn’t hit this part of the city, I don’t know.” Mike laughed, which was both a wonderful sound and a terribly embarrassing thing for Martin to experience. “It’s got the lizard brain… in my head very disoriented.”

“I'm not sure I, uh, can relate?” There was no way he could admit to the truth, even if the idea of babbling his darkest fears to a stranger had its appeal.

Mike’s pointed wingtip feathers brushed his own and Martin had to bite back a little whimper. He wasn't usually this sensitive, especially not around a visitor.

“Are you alright, Martin?” A very perceptive visitor.

“I- I'm fine. Just had a-” he stopped, shaking his head. It wasn't really the professional way to deal with the situation, was it? Jon could be pissed off at him another day for it. “I'm fine, just need to get the kettle and, uh, the tea.”

“I could help you. I know my way around a kitchen, if you have one.”

“It’s not... It’s just…” Martin’s voice failed him and his mouth snapped shut.

“Well, show me? If I know my way around it'll be much easier to get my research done.”

Martin wasn't sure what to say to that.

Without another word he made a gesture for Mike to follow and guided him through a door that led back into a dimly lit corridor that seldom experienced the joys of a vacuum cleaner. Then to the right, through another set of doors.

Deep in the heart of the Archives was… Well, it wasn't a kitchen. It wasn't a kitchenette, either. It was barely more than a cupboard-sized room with a counter, a sink and some basic appliances. Like the microwave and the kettle and a pink beanbag Martin sometimes curled up on.

Mike's wings, even firmly tucked over his back, took up enough space that Martin found himself pressed to the wall to keep himself from being so _rude_ as to touch them; from preening the pristine feathers with his fingers.

He wasn't sure where the urge to do that came from. _Hurting so badly I want to comfort someone else?_ It was a pretty silly thing to think, and he pushed it down as he tried to reach the tea corner without bumping into Mike.

“I don't really fit here, do I?” Mike laughed again. It sent shivers running down Martin's spine. “It's fine. I don't mind if you just--”

Looking back, Martin should have seen it coming and not squeaked like a mad bird when Mike reached for his hand. He had expected Mike to maybe hand over one of the tea boxes, not move their arms so that Martin's palm came to rest across the outer edge of Mike's wing.

“You can touch, I don't mind. That is, if I read the situation correctly? If not feel free to ignore me,” Mike said, so calmly that it kept Martin from squeaking again, or passing out and hitting his head on the counter.

Just as calmly, like it wasn't the reason they were there in the first place, Mike got the tea.

“I, uh--”

“It really is fine. And I find that after so long up in the sky, it helps me as well. If you'd like to, of course.”

Martin had barely gotten to touch Tim's wings and they had been dating at the time. To do it against one's will was practically a crime and to just offer it… Martin teetered between yanking his hand back and just digging his fingers into their silky layers.

“I've never really done this,” he admitted before finally giving in to his own silly desire and ruffling Mike's feathers lightly, running his nails over the barbs. It felt similar and entirely foreign to when he groomed himself. “I-”

“It's not usual, I know, I get that a lot. I guess I'm not usual, either. Do you want to sit down while I make the tea?”

Martin was sure -- _mostly_ sure -- that the right thing to do was decline the offer, tear his hand away, and ensure that he wasn't going to somehow get fired for being intimate with a visitor. His body disagreed.

“Please,” he mumbled as his knees folded and he sunk into the beanbag. “I m- mean, that'd be really lovely.” He sighed softly, staring at the space between his feet, the shadowed floor tiles.

“I did offer.”

Mike's wings moved with him, fanning open a little wider. Between them, Martin thought he saw Mike shudder a couple times when he raked lines down the underside of his stiff pinion feathers. It was exactly the sort of response he'd expected, and his own wings ached for more.

“After facing a big storm, it's nice to have some help to keep me grounded. Something that doesn't involve thousands of watts running through me, anyway.”

That shocked him. “You flew through thunder? Are you insane?” Martin's brain caught up with his tongue a moment too late. The skin around his temples stretched as his eyes widened, right before he slapped a hand in front of his own mouth in surprise.

“Not today.” Mike gave him a lopsided half grin before turning away to fuss over the kettle. “Not in a very long time. I was a child then. I want to say I didn’t know any better, but I did. I did know better and I told myself it would be fine.” It wasn’t. It couldn’t have been.

Martin didn’t see him shrug and Mike gave no outer signs he was bothered by the topic of their conversation, but he felt it in the way Mike’s muscles rolled, stiffening and relaxing under his grip. It was -- well, amazing was one word for it -- to think someone so small and _impressive_ could have flown through a thunderstorm and lived to tell the tale.

“I’m sorry, I… I had no idea. I didn’t mean to, uh, shout. Or upset you.”

That got him a reaction, in the form of an amused snigger and a cloud of steam wafting in his direction. “You didn’t. I lived, didn’t I? Besides, I don’t get to talk about it often. It’s… hm, nice.”

“I- I don’t mind if you want to talk about it. More, I mean.” 

“Sure. Not much to talk about but I can certainly try,” Mike replied. He held his wings so low that when he lowered himself to sit on the floor beside Martin, holding two cups in his hands, their length came sprawling down. “Here, I wasn’t sure how you took your tea, so I guess I overloaded it. I can get more if it’s terrible.”

“We don’t have to stay here, we can get back to the office and sit down on the chairs and-” Martin’s protests died when their fingers brushed and heat shot up his forearm, curling across his elbow. “Mike, I-”

“It’s fine, drink your tea,” Mike said, pushing the mug towards his free hand.

There was no way he would have ever been so careless with his own wings around a stranger, and yet Mike seemed to… trust him to keep stroking them as they lazily draped over his thighs, tips brushing his shoes. In truth, he didn’t think he would’ve stopped unless asked to.

It was a strange disconnect. The kind of thing that happened to him in _dreams,_ not -- never in real life.

Between sips, Mike told him the story of how he’d been driven to fly during that storm. Of the lightning strike that caught him. Of the pain of being set alight, falling from the sky. Mike pulled aside his woolen scarf and bared the pale spiralling scar, stretching across the side of his neck like a snake -- or a web.

And Martin touched. Because he couldn’t _not_ do it.

He wasn’t sure when they set their cups aside for the sake of moving closer. Or when he unfurled his own drab wings and tentatively allowed Mike to run his palm across the outer pinions.

There was a knee between his legs, pressing into the surface of the beanbag, and before long they were a tangle of limbs and feathers from which Martin wasn’t sure he wanted to break free. Another time, another day, he could feel terrible about being such an easy catch. For now, he enjoyed Mike’s breath on his ear and the way his words flowed steadily against him.

“I can tell from the way you hold them that you’re self conscious about them. But I want you to know that I think your wings are beautiful," Mike said, sinking his fingers into silky down feathers.

Martin froze.

He wasn’t even sure what -- if anything -- he could answer that with. He opened his mouth, scrambling for the right kind of thing to say, and stammered heavily. His cheeks throbbed hotly and his reaction was to tuck his wings away and apologise and _leave_. And ignore the pleasure coiling inside him. Definitely that.

Mike stopped him.

"We just met, what possible reason could I have to lie to you? How about once I'm done with the books we grab something to eat? I'd love to get to know you better.” He paused, pulled away so that Martin saw his slightly preoccupied expression, then added, “is that too forward?”

“I- I’m not really sure?”

“Not sure about me being too forward or about getting dinner?”

“Um, I- I just I’m not really, you’re not really-”

One of Mike’s hands brushed the side of his face and Martin froze all over again, like a deer in the headlights of a storm. His thoughts made little sense in his head and he didn’t try to wrangle them into something coherent. He couldn’t.

“What if you show me to the books I'm looking for and while I'm doing my research, you think it over. Does that sound good?” Mike’s thumb smoothed the flat of his jaw and Martin blinked.

Were they still talking? _Oh._

“I- yeah, that’s good. I can definitely do that.” And maybe not sound like an idiot about it, too. “I can take you there now. It’s right over there and I think that Tim left the key somewhere, I’m- I’m sorry. I-”

“Hey, I followed you here,” Mike said in a way that sounded like a whisper without dropping so low. “I made the tea and sat here and told you my story because I wanted to. I’ve enjoyed this. I hope you have too.”

Martin thought he might’ve nodded, but wasn’t entirely sure until Mike slowly pulled away, methodically disentangling them. He stood with his wings open for balance and held one hand out to help Martin up.

Right. He could do this.

“Come on, I’ll show you.”  



	2. Chapter 2

Dinner, after a whole afternoon of worrying _,_ was the best and worst thing in Martin’s recent past. That was an exaggeration that justified itself the moment he took a bite from his pasta and felt his stomach lurch unpleasantly, and a sourness that coated his tongue and had nothing to do with the food.

It was a not-so-grim reminder that he’d forgotten lunch and had, once again, let his own silly anxieties rule his day. And that, even after the way he’d practically run away after delivering Mike to the rare book storage, Mike hadn’t left him behind. In fact, he’d been the one waiting for Martin to finish his shift and for his answer.

After that, and the little time they’d spent together, it wasn’t like Martin could have said _no_. Or wanted to.

He chewed thoughtfully, trying to appreciate the expensive meal without heaving. Occasionally, Martin caught glimpses of wings; of other customers enveloped in palettes that spanned the whole rainbow: from dull browns like his own wings to extravagant blues and golds he seldom saw up in the sky.

The sky -- that was why he was here, wasn’t it? Rather, why he wasn’t somewhere else. _Another life,_ he thought, not for the first time that evening.

“So, uh, you’re researching the weather?” Martin asked.

They sat by an open window, close enough to the riverfront that if he focused, he could see boat-lights in the distance and feel the tangy September breeze roll inside. It caressed his resting wings, ruffling his coverts and drawing a smile from his lips.

Nodding, Mike looked up from his plate and smiled back. “The mythological implications of storms, yeah. Which, unless you're really into ancient, nearly indecipherable texts, I won't bother you with.”

“I do work at the Archives, you know. I'm surrounded by old books all day, every day. Sometimes I even dream of them.”

That seemed to make Mike's smile widen. “Fair enough. I didn't mean to assume why you worked there. And seriously, half the time it's gruesomely boring stuff.”

“Um, if I may ask, why do you do it?”

Instead of answering, Mike lifted one hand in a questioning motion. “Well, why do you work at the Institute?”

Good, terrible question. “I like the smell.” It was only a half truth. Martin did enjoy the smell of old books, but it wasn't one of the reasons he'd applied for his job, and it didn't mean much when he kept finding rotted through, mouldy papers around. “It's usually quiet, and I like that too. The books are nice, I like knowing those things, but, uh, you're right that it's not all on topics I enjoy.”

“Like storms?”

Now Mike was teasing him, Martin saw it in the way his lips quirked and in the amused glint in his eyes. And the way his wings lifted a few inches off their rests, gesturing even while the rest of his body was still.

“I never thought much about that,” Martin admitted. “I like the rain. It's soothing, especially when you're cozied up inside and not getting your feathers all soggy.”

“You never flew in the rain?” If he was surprised, Mike didn't show it.

Martin tried not to show how uncomfortable it made him to be reminded of all the experiences he'd missed simply by being… broken, he guessed. Strapped to his useless--

“Martin?”

They were too far apart, on opposite sides of the table, for Mike to reach him with anything but the tip of a wing. The gentle brush of a feather over his nose nearly startled him out of his chair, as did the ache -- not all physical -- that followed.

Martin tried to swallow down the panic as it threatened to spill over. “I…” He couldn't answer. “You never told me why you liked them. The storms, I mean.”

“ _Oh._ I like the rain, too. It can be a pain in the arse to see through when I'm trying to fly somewhere, but sometimes… it's nice to just zone out and let the wind and the storm guide me,” Mike said, sighing. “I know that's not really an answer. After my, uh, accident, I was actually terrified of the storms, anything with thunder. For a long time I didn't fly at all.”

Regret swirled in Martin's mouth, sinking to the pit of his stomach. It was such a horrible thing to drag out of Mike, and of course he'd gone and done it anyway. He looked down and pushed the plate aside. It was nearly empty anyway. As was Mike's, he realised after a forlorn glance.

“Martin.”

He couldn't have known, Martin thought, like that might absolve him of being an insensitive arse. No, he couldn't, but he'd seen Mike's scar, he'd touched it. He'd felt the way Mike's wings had twitched under his fingers.

He could have guessed.

“You were made to fly,” Martin said, very quietly. It was like a bullshit line from one of his unwritten poems, and it was the truth.

Mike's smile waned a little. He ignored some stray glances and shuffled forward, leaning his elbows on the table. “I did. Just not for a while. Took me a… almost a decade after healing to really take off, and even then I was religiously checking the weather every time I flew somewhere.”

“But you, um- you didn't let it stop you,” Martin mumbled.

Mike was so close that Martin saw the way his already pale blue eyes turned even paler, liquid silver in the soft haze of the restaurant’s light. He reached for Martin’s hand, trembling over the napkin, and wove their fingers together. There was no resistance from either of them.

“Almost…” Mike squeezed, once, twice. “I almost thought I couldn't do it. Then I did, and got weirdly obsessed with finding what it _meant._ Not just to me. I mean, it was a freak accident, right?”

It wasn't a question. It wasn't _his fault._ Mike could have died -- Martin wasn't sure what the odds of surviving a lightning strike were, but they couldn't have been good. And it hadn't been his fault.

Like… it wasn't his fault his mum had been too ill to teach him to fly?

“As it turns out, I'm not the first or the last to get invested in the weather as... I don't know, something more. It was nice to have something to cling to,” Mike continued, his voice carrying softly over the noise. “Besides, I ended up here, with you. I'd say it all worked out.”

The pain and tightness in Martin’s chest crumbled a little under the warmth of Mike's gaze and the weight of his palm. It wasn't perfect -- he’d known Mike for barely a day; it was too loud and stares burrowed into the back of his head -- but it was good. It was better than good.

“I've never, um…” He paused and looked. It was easier with Mike. It was simpler, with him. “You asked me if I've never flown out in the rain.” Martin's wings fluttered and he fought back the urge to tuck them shut or to bite back his words, or to just run.

“It's not unusual. I'm the weird one, flying around regardless of the weather. Sometimes I wonder if I'm just daring it to happen again. See if it was luck or something else that saved me.”

“I know. I mean, you're not weird, that's not what I meant-”

“I'll take it as a compliment then.”

Martin’s cheeks burned and there was a slow, unnerving thud in his ear; the sound of his own heart pulsing in his veins.

“ _Oh,_ uh, it was. But that's not… what I wanted to say is that I, uh, I never-”

“You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to.”

That was a part of the issue, wasn't it? For whatever reason, he was more comfortable with the thought of revealing his secret to Mike than he'd been with Tim, or Sasha, or any of his friends growing up. Even his mum.

Martin stared down at their hands, at the tips of Mike's fingers curled over his own. It bolstered his decision.

“I never really learned to fly,” Martin admitted, pushing out the words as low and fast as he could.

There. He forced himself to inhale, to breathe.

It wasn't what Martin had expected. Time didn't stop. He didn't feel any lighter -- any emptier. It didn't keep his ridiculous terror from coiling in his belly and the tension from settling in his muscles.

When he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine, distorted in his mind, a mockery of Mike's face, lips stretched in amusement. He saw Mike leave, wings fanned open. Saw him fly away, becoming a black and white speck in the heart of the storm.

And none of it was real. None of it happened. Martin knew that, even if he couldn’t quite believe it. Reality was written in none of the ugly words that ran through his head. Instead of away, he felt Mike’s grip tighten and a breeze when he lifted his wings over the table.

“Huh.”

Martin wheezed. “I'm sorry. I shouldn’t have let you drag me here and not have said anything before. I didn’t think I’d tell you. I didn’t think I’d ever-”

“Hey,” Mike cut him off, “you didn’t have to tell me at all. Besides, it’s not a big deal. It’s not an issue. Not to me, anyway.”

It was an absurd thing to hear. Maybe if he hadn’t just been told Mike’s story, Martin might’ve agreed -- probably not, but he would’ve tried. Now? He couldn’t. Flying was what _they_ did. It was what _Mike did._

“I- I, I just… _no one wants a bird that can’t fly,_ ” Martin said, well, quoted some more shitty poetry, probably buried in one of his notebooks back home.

Mike’s hand stiffened under his. “You’re a person, Martin. Same as me, same as everyone else here, I hope. Just because you haven’t flown doesn’t mean I’m going to walk away and pretend none of this has happened.”

“That’s not- I’m just… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Mike said. He sighed and Martin noticed that his wings still hung around the both of them. “You’ve got nothing to apologise for. Not to me, anyway. And if there’s anyone you have to apologise to, well, they’re not here. Are they?”

“I don’t know, it’s silly.”

“Maybe. But it’s also important to you. And I might not know much about you, but it’s important to _me._ ”

Martin looked up. Feather-shaped shadows spanned the length of the table. He hadn’t seen Mike’s wings spread so wide before, keeping them both hidden from view -- in a little private bubble of space, separate from the restaurant and its customers.

He could just close his eyes and imagine they were somewhere else. Up in a sky streaked with clouds and the pale glow of stars across the horizon.

“I don’t get it,” Martin admitted. There was a ticklish lump in his throat; guilt and fear and hope all balled together. “Why you’d care or why… _I care_. It’s always been like this. But um, thank you. Not just for this, for tonight- today. All of it.”

“I, er, believe it or not, I don’t do this often, or at all,” Mike replied. His eyes looked strange -- almost ghostly in the dark. “I think you’re cute, same as your wings. That’s not it, though. I mean it. I really don’t care if you can fly or not. You’re still you.”

Martin wasn’t sure of that. Was it still him if he’d always meant to be something -- someone else? Was it still him if he stopped trying? Or only when he finally succeeded in letting go?

“Cute? That’s a bit-”

“Too much? I told you, I’ve never really done this before. I’m just _hoping_ It’s the right thing to say.”

“No! I like it. I really like it, actually. I just… never thought someone would think that and not care.” There was some tension in his shoulders and he rolled it away, lifting his wings until their tips grazed Mike's. His were so much smaller, ends blunted and awkward. “About me, being this way.”

“Do you want to do something about it?”

There was something about the question -- maybe the suddenness of it or the feelings that came with the thought of flying -- that caught him off guard. Martin’s breath hitched and he had to stop himself from pulling his arm back. Away from Mike.

He tried to still himself but his reaction must have been pretty obvious because Mike ran his thumb across the top of Martin's knuckles and slowly lowered their curtain of feathers. “Did I ask the wrong question?”

Martin shook his head. No. No, it wasn't _Mike's_ fault.

“Well, did you want to learn?”

“I’m sorr- what?”

It was clear what Mike had meant. And Martin still asked, needed to hear him say it; needed to hear what he wanted to.

“To fly. It’s not too late,” Mike explained. He rubbed circles across Martin's skin, over his palm. “I thought the same after what happened to me. That I'd never feel the wind howling in my ears or touch the clouds or just soar across that endless blue.”

“But you never gave up.”

“You're wrong. I'd already given up. It was because I was afraid that I took that leap.” Mike squeezed his hands again. Reassuring, that's what it felt like to Martin. “I was alone then but, um, if you want help, I could try to teach you.”

Martin wasn't sure he hadn't somehow just slipped into an alternate universe where his boss didn't hate his guts, where he had attractive guys asking him out on dates, maybe where his mum wasn't dying in a care home outside the city. He didn't know how else to parse Mike's offer, or why he believed him at all.

There was an earnest, hopeful look in Mike's face and Martin wanted -- _needed_ \-- it to be honest.

“You… really mean that? You'd help me?” he asked, silently willing his heart to stop aching and the butterflies to stop waltzing in his stomach.

“I wouldn't have offered if I didn't,” Mike said, his wings resting back. “It’s not easy. Not flying, flying, any of it.” He corrected himself, “I don't want to veer into motivational speaker territory here. It won't be easy, it'll probably suck. But yeah, I really mean it.”

That, Martin thought, was one of the nicest things anyone had ever said to him, and he had absolutely no idea how to respond. His chest hurt. Him? Flying? The images zipped through his head in a flurry of wingbeats and powdery down feathers -- black and white.

Martin started to nod. It was one thing to admit it to himself, another to say it out loud. _Thank you_ , he mouthed in Mike’s direction. Not for the offer -- that wasn’t the only thing he was thankful for. For everything. For today, at least.

Mike raised one eyebrow in his direction. Even as small as he was, his presence was large --  larger even than his wings. “You don’t have to thank me,” he replied. “You don't have to decide about it now, either. If you tell me you don’t want to fly, that’s fine. I don’t… I wouldn’t go anywhere.”

“I don’t know what I want yet,” Martin admitted.

“And that’s fine. I can wait. Whatever you're worrying about, it can wait for another day, or whenever you feel up to it.”

“You do sound a bit like a motivational speaker,” Martin quipped. It helped quell the fear that he'd just go and fail at this, too. Fail Mike, somehow.

“I was going for reassuring, but thanks, I have some experience trying to work myself up to do things.”

“I wasn't-” Martin stopped when he saw the amused half-smile on Mike's face.

He appreciated the way Mike's lips were framed by his sharp jawline and windswept hair. It was a wonderful sight; Mike was wonderful and Martin wasn't this lucky. Ever. And after their oddly intimate conversation, he couldn't quite return the smile.

Mike didn't seem to mind.

He pulled away, lounging back in his chair, wings folding and brushing Martin’s sides in the process. “Do you want to get out of here? I know a dessert place nearby. I haven't checked it out yet, didn't have a reason to.” He sighed, pleased.

“I, uh-” Martin didn’t want to decline the offer. And he didn’t know if he could stomach even more food without pain. “Maybe another time?” It sounded pathetically hopeful, a high pitched whine to his own ears.

“Can I at least walk you home?”

“Yeah, I’d like that,” Martin said. “I’d really like that.”

The walk to his apartment wasn’t too long -- twenty minutes on the Tube and another dozen walking -- and it’d just started to turn colder. Martin’s breath was snow white and when Mike nudged closer to him, shoulders touching, wings hovering above his head, Martin didn’t resist.

As it turned out, it was easy to wrap one arm over Mike’s shoulders and relax until his feathers draped over them. It was so good, the way Mike reached for him, one hand hooked around Martin’s hip, his fingers brushing the inch of bare skin above his trousers. Mike’s scarf hung loose between them, flapping in the breeze.

The door to Martin’s building was an unassuming old thing. Sturdy enough that it didn’t budge open when he first pulled on the doorknob. Nor when Mike lifted his head to kiss him and Martin nearly fell back in surprise. It was brief and mostly chaste, only a hint of teeth and a hunger he wasn’t sure belonged to him or Mike.

“That was… uh, wow.”

“Amazing,” Mike filled in the word when Martin’s mind refused to cooperate.

“Amazing,” Martin repeated. Yeah, that was right. “Will I see you tomorrow?” he asked, as it dawned on him that they were still both stood by the door and there were others, coming and going, walking down the road.

“I’ll be there,” Mike said, a touch breathless. Martin felt his words, tingling and warm against his lips. “I, uh, I hope you will too.”

He nodded. He would be there even if he couldn’t quite bear to watch Mike fan his wings wide open and fly off into the night.

 

\---

 

“You sure?”

“I’m sure,” Martin confirmed. He was maybe two inches from Mike’s face, staring into those pupils he was sure couldn’t be only human. Instead of black, their colour surprised him.

But Mike wasn’t just human. He was a bird after all. _His_ bird, maybe.

“I want to do it,” he said. He held both arms around Mike's neck, nuzzling Mike's cheek with the tip of his nose.

Dust and the dry scent of old books wafted around them. Martin saw and felt Mike's smile widen against his skin. “Alright, if you're sure.”

 

\---

 

The next time he saw Mike outside of the Archives, it was a beautiful Wednesday afternoon. Elias was busy scheduling and Jon had approved his request for half a day off. He was free and London was blessed with a sunny, rain-free day, no hint of a cloud anywhere on the horizon.

The park Mike brought him to was… something else.

Martin had heard about them before. He’d dreamt about them when he was a kid, too. But he'd never seen anything quite like this before, outside videos and pictures. It was a whole -- he glanced down at a leaflet -- hundred acres dedicated to the improvement of people's flying skills, and, of course, having fun.

Like a skate park, but bigger and better. And, well, Martin was pretty sure skating didn’t involve wind tunnels or ball pits.

He held on to his coat and Mike’s arm as they neared one of the beginner’s courses. Even its simple setup and cheery mascot -- clearly designed with children in mind -- were oddly intimidating.

Martin tucked his wings firmly against his back, tips folded inwards, and avoided staring out. Flocks of kids hopped and laughed all around him. Most of their plumages were still developing and already they could fly far better than Martin could ever hope to.

“Hey, it’ll be fine,” Mike said. He folded the tips of his wings, feathers falling over Martin's shoulder in a hug.

“I know, I know. I'm just… nervous.”

“We don't have to-”

“I want to. I do. It's just weird, to be around all these hatchlings that clearly know what they're doing when I have no idea.” Martin sighed. “I never even told you what happened to me. I, uh, I never told anyone.”

“Do you want to tell me?” Mike asked as they rounded a small building, the entrance of which led them up a flight of stairs.

Martin didn't only want to, he _needed_ to. He didn't think he'd ever felt this way before. After all Mike had already offered him, being honest was least he could do. “Yeah, I do.”

The room they stood before was nothing short of enormous, its ceiling so high up Martin could barely see it, painted blue and white like the sky. The building itself had seemed too small to accommodate it. Within, several platforms -- open balconies -- had been suspended across each wall. A strong wind blew from… somewhere, though Martin could see no turbines anywhere

There was a little hummingbird teenager sat nearby, wings buzzing and bare feet hanging off the edge.

Martin looked down and immediately took a step back, nausea and vertigo hitting him all at once. The bottom of the room was at least a hundred feet below them and the floor was almost invisible under swathes of thick black netting.

Oh god. Was he really doing this?

“Wanna try?” Mike held out his hand and unfolded his wings. “You can tell me your story as we glide down.”

Martin had no idea how long it took him to actually nod. He forced his shoulders to relax. Mike had preened him earlier and his underwings were still ticklishly sensitive. He groaned as they opened and thick warm pleasure washed away the terror.

“Okay,” Martin muttered. He stared out ahead, trying to ignore the sheer drop in front of him. From the corner of his eyes, he noticed Mike move. It was the push he'd been waiting for.

They fell together.

For a second, Martin saw a blur of white and black and blue as each direction shifted, rearranging themselves around him.

Well, falling wasn't quite right. It wasn't really flying, either. Even with his short blunted wings, he barely had to move to keep himself afloat.

It was a brilliant start.

Martin couldn't quite hear himself laugh over the sound of the wind rushing in his ears. He turned to see Mike effortlessly manoeuvring closer, their hands still latched. It was harder for Martin to do without sending them both crashing down. He flapped once, then brought both his arms around Mike's neck.

Kissing high up in the air was something Martin hadn't predicted he'd enjoy so much. His stomach dropped and he moaned into Mike's mouth, fear and longing mingling into a blissful sense of freedom.

Mike kept them gliding. After they broke apart he touched the small of Martin's back and pulled their bodies tight together

It was close enough to finally speak. “I broke a wing when I was five,” Martin choked out, breathless against the side of Mike's face, lips grazing his cheekbone. “That spring I found a blackbird nest. I don’t know why, I just wanted to see the eggs. I remember slipping and falling and then just… pain.”

Mike started to say something, Martin couldn’t quite tell the words. His lips were hot and Mike’s voice quietly pained.

It reminded him of something. “It’s not like I got struck by lightning!”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Martin brushed a lock of hair away from his eyes and leaned his forehead against Mike’s. “I know. I was fine. I- I mean, not _fine_ , I was scared, but it wouldn’t have kept me from learning to fly or anything. Um, it was- it was my mum. I know not everyone has their parents to teach them. She wanted to and then she-” He stopped, blinked away the tears that threatened to spill. “She got ill.”

“I’m sorry.”

Martin shook his head slowly. “That’s when it started. She just never had the time to teach me and I just wanted her to be okay. I thought… I thought she'd get better one day and that just never happened. At some point I just started pretending that I could do it and just didn't enjoy flying. It was easier that way.”

Now that he’d started telling Mike about it, it was harder to keep his thoughts from spilling out. There was so much he’d never told anyone. Too much he’d scarcely admitted to himself.

“She uh, forgot she hadn't taught me,” Martin said. His muscles cramped and his wings ached from being stretched out for so long. “I had to drop out of school to take care of her and then, it was just more important to stay afloat than to fly, you know?”

“I think I do,” Mike replied. If it wasn’t for him, Martin was sure he’d have fallen already. “Your own personal storm.”

“Well, I didn’t really fight back. I let it take me. Sounds weird, but at some point, it became normal. Lying. I almost forgot flying was something I could’ve done and that there wasn’t something wrong with my wings.”

“The only thing wrong is how beautiful they are.”

Martin gasped. They were so close he couldn’t quite see the expression on Mike’s face. He could only feel him: his breath, his hands, his wings, everywhere at once. Giddy and dizzy and drunk with euphoria, he didn't even mind they were slowly gliding a spiral down to the floor.

“I- Wow. That was pretty, uh, sappy.” He laughed, nearly breathless against Mike’s lips.

“Sappy? Huh, I never thought I did sap. I guess I should’ve seen it coming. Now for really trying, did you know the Wandering Albatross mates for life?”

Martin did. He’d read about it once. They had the largest wingspan of all birds. “Really?”

Mike grinned and kissed him again.  



End file.
